The End of the Beginning
Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End
You are old. Somehow you are immortal, and then all of a sudden, you are old. Your bones fail, and your mind can no longer tolerate people. Intelligence and morality are lost at some point. Stupidity and malice work overtime. The process is creeping. But eventually, you wake up one morning and time has run out. Clear, you had good times. But those are finite, too. You cling to them and convince yourself that you had a good life. At least at times. How did it all begin? The first memory I recall is the wish for death. Not as an adult, but as a child. Because you cannot stand your mother constantly screaming at you or telling you that you are disabled. Just because you ask what is for lunch. Your father rarely helped you. He was rarely there anyway. Somehow, the money for the house and vacations had to come from somewhere. But that was exactly the source of the frustration that my mother took out on me. The starting conditions were as bad as they could be. A mother who blames you for her marriage problems. You are the ideal target for her frustration. So you learn that you are a piece of shit. Not good enough. She kindly drums that into you. At the same time, a father who is never around. Only when you are old enough to work do you get noticed. However, you only count as long as you keep working. The appearance from the outside is great. That is why nobody believes you when you tell them how shitty it really is. Because you have everything: your tuned scooter, you guys have a house, and both parents are socially and professionally established. Nobody understands that you are trying to drown your existence in alcohol, drugs, and hard labor. But hey, let us write the story of the antihero. With these conditions, sometime in early 2020, the story begins. Let us skip the rest of childhood. It always followed the same pattern. School time was all bullying and the like. When your mother teaches you the victim role, your intelligence for the grammar school does not do you any good either. It only lasted for two years there, until the seventh grade. When you wish for death, school is the last thing you put any effort into. But dropping down to the comprehensive school brings you new friends. For the first time in your life. Well, actually rather the school chavs. But from them, you learn: violence ends bullying. The first time you strike, it does not matter if you take a beating too. You fight back, and your father did teach you that you only count when you perform at work. Weakness and failure are weeded out. You adopt that one to one for your life. In this case, good for me, rather bad for a few other classmates. Normal stuff at that school: dealing and fights were everyday business. And a motorcycle helmet rearranges a face quite effectively. We rode scooters anyway. The group principle was also put into practice. Meaning, if someone was looking for trouble, everyone swarmed him. Because that minimized the risk that he might actually fight back and someone from our group would get hurt. But you also had to learn to manage alone. In the mornings or afternoons, I was usually alone at the bus stop. That got exciting a couple of times. To put it nicely. The first time, the older brother of a guy I had boxed with the day before showed up. But like I said: motorcycle helmet. Am end, you have no school graduation, but you are ready to punch the world in the face. Provided you are sober enough. I then started my working life. Eight to ten hours regular shift on the construction site, and after that, I slaved away for my father to keep the black money cash flow right. Mostly my father’s, that is. On the day I actually said no to working for my father, he kicked me out the door. Up until then, I had a small granny flat in his house and was convinced I was the crown prince and would inherit everything. At least that is what he had promised. What came next? Hard labor and drugs, accompanied by alcohol. During the week, 16 to 18 hours on the construction site. From Friday night onwards, partying until Monday morning. On Sunday, you pop two Ecstasy pills to come down, along with two grams of weed. Monday morning, you top it off with a gram of speed paste to wake up. By the breakfast break at the latest, the next gram. During the lunch break, you smoke a joint so you do not lose your nerve from all the amphetamine and sleep deprivation. Everything plays out like a movie. Cap pulled low over your face and a beer in between. Alcohol is accepted, and the breath tells the lie that you are acting weird because of the booze. And not because of the drugs.
